


The Trials and Tribulations of Disrobing Dorian

by JayRain



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is fancier and a bit more complicated in Tevinter, especially the outfits. While Dorian certainly loves to look good, there are times when it's a bit of an inconvenience. Luckily, Garan Trevelyan is there to help. Or just watch. Watching is good, too. Garan Trevelyan appears courtesy of Tamarandom on deviantArt; check it out for companion artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trials and Tribulations of Disrobing Dorian

_The Trials and Tribulations of Dorian Disrobing_

 “Well. At least you have one arm out to start with.” Garan Trevelyan grinned and lounged back against the bolster on his cot.

 “You could assist me, you know,” Dorian said. He shrugged out of the Vyrantium samite robe draped over his supple, well-oiled leather mage armor. The over robe slithered down his body and crumpled on the floor of the tent. His deft fingers tugged at the ties on his left shoulder and two of the leather straps fell away.

“Or I could enjoy the show.” Garan’s green eyes sparkled and he barely held in a chuckle as Dorian moved on to the buckles holding the leather straps across his chest. He tossed the straps over his other shoulder and loosened the fasteners to be able to slide his arm out of the right sleeve. The leather top peeled away from his bronzed skin. “It’s a good show,” Garan added with a wink.

“The more you see fit to prolong it, the less time we’ll have for the after show,” Dorian said. His moustache quirked slightly when he grinned, quick fingers undoing metal catches and tugging at the belt that held his spell book and various potion vials in a collection of pouches. His handsome face twisted in a grimace as he tried to reach around his side to undo the main fasteners. The top of his leather armor draped over his waist, getting in the way of his fumbling fingers.

Garan bit his lip to keep from laughing. “How long have you worn that getup?” he asked. His own fingers twitched slightly, longing to assist in disrobing Dorian. “And it _still_ takes you this long?”

Dorian tried to tuck the bulky leather under his arm as he worked to loosen the belt and slip it through the buckle. “In my haste to disrobe it seems I forgot to remove the belt first. Forgive me for being in a rush,” he grumbled.

“I know you’re excited and all,” Garan said. “The feeling is mutual.”

“The feeling is more than just impending excitement,” Dorian muttered. At last the belt came loose and fell away. “There may be an impending need to utilize the privy.” He frowned at Garan, even as he tried to undo the lacing on his pants, and pull the laces from the grommets that held his top and bottom armor together. “I fail to see the humor in this,” he added. His cheeks were slightly flushed.

Garan got to his feet and swept his red hair off his forehead. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” he asked. He walked around to Dorian’s back and began undoing the fastenings on his leg armor while Dorian fiddled with his elbow guards. Garan took care not to let his hand linger too long on Dorian’s leg or cheek; there would be time enough for that later.

He turned his attention to Dorian’s buckled arm guard, loosening it just enough for him to slide it off his arm. Dorian tugged his top armor off, leaving him clothed in a soft woolen undershirt that clung to his torso and left Garan aching to touch and be touched by him. Dorian smiled, cleared his throat, and excused himself. While he was gone, Garan distracted himself by straightening out Dorian’s leather mage armor, draping it over the benches in their tent. Perhaps he could take it to the enchanters in the morning, before Dorian woke, to be oiled and repaired. There were a few scorch marks from the last Venatori encounter they’d had before reaching camp. Garan smiled at the memory of the fight: the two of them, casting spells in harmony, moving faster than the Venatori opponents could predict. His fingers brushed lightly over the leather and he felt a swell of fierce pride in his chest.

Dorian came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Garan’s torso. Garan held Dorian’s hand to his chest, feeling the warm buzz of his magic through his own clothing and skin, their mana mingling. “Now. Where were we, _amatus?”_ Dorian asked, nuzzling his nose into the crook between Garan’s neck and shoulder. His moustache tickled as Dorian trailed light kisses down his shoulder.

Garan turned and worked to help Dorian undo the series of ties and fastenings holding the leather over-armor to his legs, and moved down to work at the laces on his boots. Dorian’s fingers wound into his hair and Garan shivered and worked faster, his excitement making his fingers tremble.

“Inquisitor!”

Garan swore and stumbled back as he tried to keep his footing. His cheeks burned as he stood upright and smoothed his own robes over his torso. He glanced down, swore softly and grabbed a throw pillow from Dorian’s outstretched hand. He ran a hand over his mussed hair and cleared his throat before peeling back the entry flap of his tent, trying to look as casual as possible. “Speak, soldier,” he said, trying to sound authoritative even as his pulse throbbed all over when he thought of Dorian, standing off to the side and half-clothed, waiting for him. His fingers gripped the pillow more tightly.

“A rift just opened, less than a mile away and near the village. Reports are that it’s massive.” The messenger was breathing heavily and sweat dripped down into his eyes. His hair was plastered to his head under his helmet. “They’re trying to evacuate the villagers, but the demons are coming faster than the men can fight.”

Garan nodded and stared momentarily at his glowing hand. “We’ll move out right away. Tell them to ready my mount.” The man looked uncomfortable at that, but then again, few were at ease around Garan’s bog unicorn. They actually _preferred_ Dorian’s dracolisk to the haunting, dark mount.

He turned back into the tent. “Well, you heard the man.” He pulled on his enchanted gauntlets and swept his cloak over his shoulders. He grabbed his staff and shouldered his energy blade hilt before turning to see Dorian, still in a state of half-dress, staring at him wearily. “Come now,” Garan said with a smile, cupping Dorian’s cheek in his hand and running his thumb along his cheekbone. “We’ll have our time together later. Duty calls.”

Dorian sighed. “I’m not one to fear or shirk duty, as you know,” he said.

“So what’s the problem?”

Dorian turned to the pile of leather and metal and stared at it, his shoulders slightly slumped. “You _did_ see how long it took me to undress, yes?” He was already starting to lace his pants and reach for his upper body leather pieces, and slipping the guard over his exposed arm. “It will take me as long to _re_ dress.”

Garan frowned. “And then you’ll have to undress again,” he realized. He leaned his staff against the wall of the tent. He began to help Dorian with his buckles and straps once more, the soft, supple leather flexible beneath his fingers. He paused to run his fingers through Dorian’s glossy dark hair and smiled. “I guess I could always slice it off.”

Dorian gasped and stepped away, as if offended. “You would never.”

Garan grabbed his staff and headed for the door even as Dorian struggled to pull on his samite robe and fumble for his own staff. “Just try me,” he said with a grin as he mounted his waiting bog unicorn.

Dorian swung himself into the saddle of his nervously prancing dracolisk. “Oh, I intend to, _amatus_. I intend to.” He was still finagling with the last of his buckles as they galloped into the night.


End file.
